I am five feet tall, have lived in Seattle for decades without owning an umbrella, and photograph every face I find — in museums, on walls, carved into the ends of pews. These things are related.
Frida, Fashion, and the Dream That Followed Me Home
This isn’t quite a travelogue. It’s more like a dream I had while awake, somewhere in Coyoacán. Every word is true—just not all of it happened in the usual way.
The Fire of Flamenco
When I showed up for a flamenco dinner in Seville, I wasn’t expecting a life-altering moment. I was just trying not to cry into my tapas. But then she appeared—in the corner of a tiny bar, under twinkle lights and a “no moving during the show” rule—and reminded me, with every stomp and sweep of her arm, that I still had a body. And a choice.